Overcoming. Short stories and essays

The word "scholia" in translation from Greek means "comments, marginal notes." And with the help of scholias in the literature of antiquity and the Middle Ages, commentators reflected on works of fiction - for example, scholias have come down to us for Homer's Iliad. Once in the hands of the priest and famous writer Alexander Dyachenko, there was once a text that led the priest to the idea of ​​reviving a forgotten ancient genre. This is how the book “Scholias. Simple and complex stories about people ”.

Two plump, handwritten notebooks were brought to the priest by his parishioner Gleb - he found an apartment on the mezzanine, which he bought after the death of the former mistress, an old woman named Nadezhda Ivanovna. They turned out to be her autobiographical notes. The long, difficult life of a woman who survived the war and the death of her daughter, filled with joyful and sad events, has become a narrative thread on which, like beads, the author's reflections are strung, sounding a kind of echo of what was written in notebooks.

For example, Nadezhda Ivanovna recalls how unexpectedly for everyone, and even for herself, she married not a handsome man with whom she went to the movies and dances, but a guy with whom she was friends, but about love neither he nor she never and did not speak. And the marriage turned out to be strong and happy, as if God himself suggested the right decision. Priest Alexander Dyachenko in the book “Scholias. Simple and Complex Stories about People ”responds to this with a lyrical episode from his own life, recalling something imperceptibly similar to his acquaintance with his wife.

Nadezhda Ivanovna writes about her student years, which she spent in Moscow away from her family, and is amazed at how many kind people surrounded her. Once, for example, she went to Leningrad for the holidays, intending to stay with unknown relatives of a classmate. And they accepted the girl as if they were their own, although they saw for the first time in their lives. Father Alexander tells a similar story - as a student in Voronezh, not knowing where to spend the night, he knocked on his acquaintances' house - and they let him in, warmed him up and fed him. Despite the fact that for a long time they could not really understand from whom the unexpected guest came to them.

Priest Alexander Dyachenko managed to create an extraordinary storyline. These stories about human kindness, warmth of the heart and endurance in life's trials, at first seemingly scattered, in the end, add up to a completely clear pattern that unites several human destinies at once. Scholia. Simple and complex stories about people "make us think with joy that in a huge world we are not strangers to each other - and therefore not alone.

"Scholias" - this is the ancient word Archpriest Alexander Dyachenko called his first novel, which he presented to Petersburg readers on February 18 in the "Bukvoed" store. "Scholia" in Greek means "a small commentary in the margins or between the lines of an ancient or medieval manuscript."

The literary work of Father Alexander Dyachenko is familiar to readers from the books published by the Nikeya publishing house, the priest's stories are known to users of social networks on the Internet, but few people know that Dyachenko is the literary pseudonym of Archpriest Alexander Bragar, rector of the Church of the Tikhvin Icon of the Mother of God in the village of Ivanovo in the Alexander Diocese. At a meeting at Bukvoed, Father Alexander said that in fact, Dyachenko is the old surname of his family in the male line, and Bragar is a kind of pseudonym. Once his ancestors, who lived in Western Ukraine, fled from the persecution of the Orthodox, and they were sheltered by the landowner Bragar, who endowed the family with his surname. When Father Alexander began to publish his stories, he used his generic name in order, in his words, to “disguise” himself in the everyday parish environment, thus dividing the priestly ministry and the literary passion.

Earlier, Nicaea published three collections of stories by Archpriest Alexander Dyachenko. According to the priest, “ the small story format is good because it attracts those who do not like "a lot of beeches". Writing them down, I just recorded real events, meetings with people - everything that captured the heart».

Father Alexander admitted that Scholias is his first and perhaps only novel.... When asked why, he answered like this: “ Because I am not a writer, I am a priest, writing a large and truly literary work requires special knowledge, skills that I do not possess. My stories are sketches of real events, there is nothing invented in them, and in the novel one cannot do without a certain amount of fantasy. Scholias is a rich, beautiful, ancient word. I write my notes-impressions in the fields of people's lives. Everyone who reads with me leaves their scholias in the margin of the book».

The novel was written in the collaboration of five authors, not all of whom were personally acquainted with each other. It began with the manuscript of the woman, the altar girl of the temple, where the author of the book serves. " I could not even imagine that a man lives so close to me, whose grandfather is a real asceticXX century!"- said the priest. This woman is very wise and strong. She survived the tragedy played out in the family, and being on the verge of life and death, she found the strength to write about her grandfather in order to leave a mark in the history of the family, in the memory of her grandson.

Her grandfather, a simple peasant endowed with an ardent love for God, had a tremendous influence on the spiritual image of not only the family, but also the entire neighborhood. When the Bolsheviks smashed the churches, the God-lovers-commoners went to him for consolation and fortification. " I kept thinking, - said Father Alexander at a meeting in Bukvoed, - how we differ from them - pure, deep, sincere, people of the Russian hinterland of the middle of the last century - our grandfathers and fathers. I think their sincerity is what we lack!»

On the memories of the ascetic of the 20th century, the priest superimposed the story of his friends, whose daughter had an accident, and through this ordeal the whole family came to God. As Father Alexander said, according to the readers' reviews, it is clear that the roll call of the fate of people who walked in different ways, but who have acquired one priceless treasure - faith, is perceived organically, like a roll call of generations, reminding that everyone is alive with God. In this sense, he really likes the tradition of Orthodox Serbs to write single memorial notes "dead-alive."

At the presentation, Father Alexander was asked questions about how did he become a clergyman, what did he like to read?

« In life, it is very important not to take someone else's place. Having read the books of the marine writer V.V. Konetsky, since childhood I wanted to be a military sailor, but did not pass the medical examination at the school. I decided, so as not to waste time in vain, to study at some university, but one where the competition is smaller - I’m only going to hold out until spring, and then I’ll go to the naval school again. I went to an agricultural institute (because of the minimal competition), and, having started my studies, I became seriously interested in applied biology. It was so interesting to study it that I forgot about the officer's dream. On March 8 I defended my diploma, went on assignment. On the day of my arrival, a young conscript soldier brought from the Afghan war with "cargo-200" was buried in that town. He was wounded in the stomach on March 8, and at one time he entered the same faculty where, out of nothing to do, I entered. That is, everything should have been the other way around, and I took the place of that soldier.

The memory of this remained for life. For 16 years now I have been a priest, and I am still not at ease, am I not taking someone else's place? Do I have the right to the priesthood? The older you get, the more you understand which shrine you come into contact with while serving the Liturgy. This, in my opinion, is a good feeling - the test of your conscience gives rise to reverence for the saint.».

One of the readers asked to answer, how to relate to aggression, anger, which is becoming more and more around?

« Irritation is the background of being human. Moreover, we live normally, there are no hungry people, but we are so envious and insatiable, and even spurred from the screen: "Live in high! Demand! You deserve it!" Our life is a boomerang: what we launch will return. An example of selfless love for neighbors is Doctor Fyodor Petrovich Gaaz, a Catholic, for whose funeral all the St. Petersburg Orthodox clergy gathered! There is a monument on his grave - shackles designed by him in order to minimize the pain caused to the prisoners. To love as he does, the image of God in every shackle is an example for any Christian. Hatred eats away, in spite of it one must do good».

« Father Alexander Dyachenko is a wonderful priest, because a real priest always preaches, and he answered every question from the audience with a full sermon... Today we have heard about a dozen short sermons - balanced, edifying and very interesting. God grant that people who heard them receive the benefit that is within their power.

With the work of Father Alexander, I got acquainted with the book "In the Circle of Light", which I read on the fly, admired, found on the Internet all the possible stories of the priest, his "Live Journal", read it and admired it even more.

What attracted me so much to the work of Father Alexander? Much that he writes about is native, even some facts from his life are akin to me, because I was baptized at about 30, like him, and ordained at 40. Everything is the same, only with a difference of 15 years. Even the fact that he has a friend - a priest, a former special forces soldier - coincides, because I am a former hand-to-hand combat instructor. Everything native, and even written in good Russian, with cordiality - what better to wish for?

The works written by the priest are read in different ways by the laity and his colleagues in the priestly ministry. The layman looks at the events described in the book from the outside. The priest sees in them stories from his practice, only well written. Yes, indeed, for some reason, one grandmother manages to wait for the priest, hurrying to her last confession, and the other does not. A man came to confession for the first time, and even in an incomprehensible state, but brought his own pain, and how to deal with him, how to help? This professional exchange of experience in parish practice, which is not taught in the seminary, is very useful.

"Pop's Prose" is a unique genre that is interesting not only for believers. In our time, the so-called "big literature" usually creates aesthetic nonsense, playing with words, describing, as a rule, nasty passions. Fiction, fiction are immersed in a too fictional world. The priest, on the other hand, almost does not invent, his soul does not turn to write a frank invention. As a rule, the priest describes reality in such a way that it becomes alive, and this is now just not in popular culture.» .

Anna Barkhatova , correspondent of the "Russian Narodnaya Line"

I dedicate this book to my dear granddaughter Elizabeth and to everyone who was born in the early years of the twenty-first century - with hope and love.

© Dyachenko Alexander, priest, 2011

© Publishing House "Nika", 2011

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet and corporate networks, for private and public use without the written permission of the copyright holder.

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Road checks

Shortly before the New Year, sad news came to my good friend. In one of the small towns of the neighboring region, his friend was killed. As I found out, so immediately and rushed there. It turned out nothing personal. A large, strong man of about fifty, returning home late at night, saw four young guys trying to rape a girl. He was a warrior, a real warrior who had gone through many hot spots.

He stalked without hesitation, rushed into battle on the move. He beat off the girl, but someone contrived and stabbed him in the back. The blow was fatal. The girl decided that now they would kill her too, but they did not. Said:

- Live for now. Enough and one for the night - and left.

When my friend returned, I tried as best I could to express my condolences to him, but he replied:

“Don’t console me. Such a death for my friend is a reward. It would have been difficult for him to even dream of a better end. I knew him well, we fought together. There is a lot of blood on his hands, maybe not always justified. After the war, he did not live very well. You yourself understand what time it was. It took me a long time to convince him to be baptized, and, thank God, not so long ago he was baptized. The Lord took him to the most glorious death for a warrior: on the battlefield, protecting the weak. A wonderful Christian demise.

I listened to my friend and recalled the incident that happened to me.

Then there was a war in Afghanistan. In the active army, due to losses, it was necessary to make urgent replacements. Cadre officers from the units were transferred there, and in their places were called up for a period of two years in store. Not long before that I returned from the army and found myself among these "lucky ones". Thus, I had to pay my debt to the Motherland twice.

But since the military unit in which I served was not very far from my house, everything went well for us. On weekends, I often came home. My daughter was a little over a year old, my wife did not work, and the pay of the officers was then good.

I had to go home by electric trains. Sometimes in military uniform, sometimes in civilian clothes. Once, it was in the fall, I was returning to the unit. I arrived at the station thirty minutes before the arrival of the electric train. It was getting dark, it was cool. Most of the passengers sat in the premises of the station. Someone was dozing, someone was talking quietly. There were many men and young people.

Suddenly, quite suddenly, the door of the station was thrown open and a young girl ran to us. She pressed her back against the wall near the cash register and, stretching out her hands to us, shouted:

- Help, they want to kill us!

Immediately after her, at least four young people rush in and shout: “You won't leave! The end is for you! " - they squeeze this little girl into a corner and begin to choke her. Then another guy literally by the scruff of the neck cloaks another one of the same kind into the waiting room, and she yells in a heartbreaking voice: "Help!" Imagine this picture.

Then a policeman was still on duty at the station, but that day, as if on purpose, he was not there. The people sat and stared at all this horror.

Among everyone who was in the waiting room, I was the only one in the military uniform of a senior lieutenant of the aviation. If I had been in civilian life, I would hardly have stood up, but I was in uniform.

I get up and hear the sitting next to my grandmother exhaled:

- Son! Do not go, they will kill!

But I already got up and could not sit back. I still ask myself the question: how did I decide? Why? If it had happened today, I probably would not have got up. But I am such a wise gudgeon today, and then? After all, he himself had a small child. Who would feed him then? And what could I have done? One could fight with another bully, but I can't stand a minute against five, they would just smear me.

I went up to them and stood between the guys and girls. I remember getting up and standing, but what else could I? And I also remember that none of the men supported me anymore.

Luckily for me, the guys stopped and fell silent. They didn’t tell me anything, and no one hit me once, they just looked with some kind of respect, or surprise.

Then they, as if on command, turned their backs on me and left the station building. The people were silent. The little girls disappeared imperceptibly. Silence fell, and I was in the center of everyone's attention. Having learned the moment of glory, he was embarrassed and also tried to leave quickly.

I walk along the platform and - imagine my surprise - I see this whole company of young people, but no longer fighting, but walking in an embrace!

It dawned on me - they played a trick on us! Maybe they had nothing to do, and, while waiting for the train, they were having so much fun, or maybe they argued that no one would intercede. Do not know.

Then I went to the unit and thought: "But I didn't know that the guys were joking at us, I really got up." Then I was still far from the faith, from the Church. I haven't even been baptized yet. But I realized that I was tested. Someone was peering at me then. As if asking: how will you behave in such circumstances? They simulated the situation, while completely protecting me from any risk, and watched.

They are constantly peering at us. When I ask myself why I became a priest, I cannot find the answer. In my opinion, a candidate for the priesthood should still be a person of a very high moral condition. He must meet all the conditions and canons historically set by the Church to the future priest. But if you consider that I was only baptized at thirty, and until that time I lived like everyone else, then like it or not, I came to the conclusion that He simply has no one to choose from.

He looks at us like a hostess, sorting out a badly affected cereal, hoping to cook something all the same, or like a carpenter who needs to nail a few more planks, but the nails are out. Then he takes the bent, rusty ones, rules them and tries: will they go into business? Here I am, probably, such a rusty carnation, and many of my brothers who came to the Church in the wake of the early nineties. We are a generation of church builders. Our task is to restore churches, open seminaries, teach the new generation of believing boys and girls who will come to replace us. We cannot be saints, our ceiling is sincerity in our relationship with God, our parishioner is most often a suffering person. And more often than not we cannot help him with our prayers, the strength is not enough, the most that we can is only to share his pain with him.

We propose the beginning of a new state of the Church, emerging from persecution and getting used to living in the period of creative creation. Those for whom we work must come to the soil we prepare and grow holiness on it. Therefore, when I give communion to infants, I look at their faces with such interest. Which do you choose, baby, cross or bread?

Choose a cross, buddy! And we will put faith in you, and then we will multiply your childhood faith and a pure heart by our sincerity, and then, probably, our service in the Church will be justified.

The all-conquering power of love

I remember - I was still a boy, about ten years old - a family lived next to us on the same landing. All families were military, and therefore the neighbors changed quite often. The grandmother lived in the apartment of those neighbors. Now I understand that she was a little over sixty, but then I thought she was one hundred percent. Grandmother was quiet and taciturn, did not like old ladies' gatherings and preferred loneliness. And she had one oddity. There were two excellent benches in front of the entrance, but grandmother took out a small stool and sat on it facing the entrance, as if she was looking out for someone, afraid to miss.

Children are curious people, and this behavior of the old woman intrigued me. Once I broke down and asked her:

- Grandma, why are you sitting facing the door, are you waiting for someone?

And she answered me:

- No, boy. If I had the strength, I would just go to another place. Otherwise, I have to stay here. But I have no strength to look at these pipes.

In our yard there was a boiler room with two tall brick pipes. Of course, it was scary to climb on them, and even among the older boys, none of them risked. But what does the grandmother have to do with these pipes? Then I did not dare to ask her, and after a while, going out for a walk, I again saw my neighbor sitting alone. She seemed to be waiting for me. I realized that my grandmother wanted to tell me something, sat down next to her, and she stroked my head and said:

- I was not always old and weak, I lived in a Belarusian village, I had a family, a very good husband. But the Germans came, my husband, like other men, went to the partisans, he was their commander. We women supported our men as much as we could. This became known to the Germans. They arrived at the village early in the morning. They drove everyone out of their houses and, like cattle, drove to the station in the neighboring town. There the carriages were already waiting for us. People were stuffed into teplushki so that we could only stand. We drove with stops for two days, we were not given any water or food. When we were finally unloaded from the cars, some were no longer able to move. Then the guards began to throw them to the ground and finish off with rifle butts. And then they showed us the direction to the gate and said: "Run." As soon as we ran half the distance, we let the dogs down. The strongest ran to the gate. Then the dogs were driven away, everyone who remained was lined up in a column and led through the gate, on which it was written in German: "To each his own." Since then, boy, I cannot look at the high chimneys. "

She bared her hand and showed me a tattoo of a row of numbers on the inside of her arm, closer to the elbow. I knew it was a tattoo, my dad had a tank pierced on his chest because he is a tanker, but why inject numbers?

- This is my number in Auschwitz.

I remember that she also talked about how our tankers freed them and how lucky she was to live to this day. She didn’t tell me anything about the camp itself and what happened in it, she probably felt sorry for my childish head. I learned about Auschwitz later. I found out and understood why my neighbor could not look at the pipes of our boiler room.

During the war, my father also ended up in the occupied territory. They got it from the Germans, oh, how they got it. And when our men drove the nemchura, those, realizing that the grown boys are tomorrow's soldiers, decided to shoot them. They gathered everyone and took them to the log, and then our airplane saw a crowd of people and gave a line next to it. The Germans are on the ground, and the boys are scattered. My dad was lucky, he ran away with a bullet in the arm, but ran away. Not everyone was lucky then.

My father entered Germany as a tanker. Their tank brigade distinguished itself near Berlin at the Seelow Heights. I've seen pictures of these guys. Youth, and all the chest in orders, a few people - Heroes. Many, like my dad, were drafted into the active army from the occupied lands, and many had something to take revenge on the Germans. Therefore, maybe they fought so desperately bravely. They walked across Europe, freed concentration camp prisoners and beat the enemy, finishing them mercilessly. “We were eager to go to Germany itself, we dreamed of how we would smear it with the tracks of the tracks of our tanks. We had a special part, even the uniform was black. We still laughed, lest they confuse us with the SS. "

Immediately after the end of the war, my father's brigade was stationed in one of the small German towns. Rather, in the ruins that remained of him. Themselves somehow settled in the basements of the buildings, but there was no room for the dining room. And the brigade commander, a young colonel, ordered to knock down tables from shields and set up a temporary dining room right on the square of the town.

“And here is our first peaceful lunch. Field kitchens, cooks, everything is as usual, but the soldiers are not sitting on the ground or on the tank, but, as expected, at the tables. They had just begun to dine, and suddenly German children began to crawl out of all these ruins, cellars, crevices like cockroaches. Someone is standing, and someone already cannot stand from hunger. They stand and look at us like dogs. And I don’t know how it happened, but I took the bread with my shot through my hand and put it in my pocket, I look quietly, and all our guys, without looking up at each other, are doing the same. ”

And then they fed the German children, gave everything that could somehow be hidden from dinner, the children of yesterday themselves, who, quite recently, without flinching, were raped, burned, and shot by the fathers of these German children in our land they had captured.

The brigade commander, a Hero of the Soviet Union, a Jew by nationality, whose parents, like all other Jews of a small Belarusian town, were buried alive by the punishers alive, had every right, both moral and military, to drive off the German "geeks" from their tankers with volleys. They devoured his soldiers, reduced their combat effectiveness, many of these children were also sick and could spread the infection among the personnel.

But the colonel, instead of shooting, ordered an increase in the rate of food consumption. And German children, on the orders of the Jew, were fed along with his soldiers.

Do you think what this phenomenon is - Russian Soldier? Where does such mercy come from? Why didn't they take revenge? It seems that this is beyond any strength - to find out that all your relatives were buried alive, perhaps by the fathers of the same children, to see concentration camps with many bodies of tortured people. And instead of "coming off" on the children and wives of the enemy, they, on the contrary, saved them, fed them, and treated them.

Several years have passed since the events described, and my dad, after graduating from a military school in the fifties, again served in Germany, but already as an officer. Once, on the street of a city, a young German called out to him. He ran to my father, grabbed his hand and asked:

- Don't you recognize me? Yes, of course, now it's hard to recognize me in that hungry ragged boy. But I remember how you fed us among the ruins then. Trust us, we will never forget this.

This is how we made friends in the West, by the power of arms and the all-conquering power of Christian love.

I did not participate in the war ...

On Victory Day, my father, as far as I can remember, usually sat alone at the table. Mom, without saying anything in advance with him, took out a bottle of vodka, collected the simplest snack and left father alone. It seems that on such a holiday the veterans try to get together, but he never went anywhere. He sat at the table and was silent. This does not mean that none of us could sit down with him, it was just that he seemed to disappear into himself and did not notice anyone. I could sit in front of the TV all day and watch war films, the same ones. And so from year to year. It was boring for me to sit and be silent, and my father did not tell anything about the war.

Once, probably in the seventh grade, I asked him that day:

- Dad, why did you come from the war with only one medal, did you fight badly? Where are your awards?

Father, by that time having had time to drink a couple of glasses, smiled at me and answered:

- What are you, son, I received the largest award that a soldier can dream of in a war. I'm back. And I have you, my son, I have my family, my home. Isn't that enough? - Then, as if overcoming himself, he asked: - Do you know what war is?

And he began to tell me. This is the only time in my life that I have listened to his history of the war. And again he never returned to this conversation, as if it did not exist at all.

- The German came to us when I was almost the same age as you are now. Our troops retreated, and in August 1941 we were already in the occupied territory. My older brother, your uncle Alexei, was then in the army, he also fought with the White Finns. And our whole family remained under the Germans. Who has never been in our village: Romanians, Magyars, and Germans. The most cruel were the Germans. Anything they liked was taken away without asking and killed for any disobedience. The Romanians, I remember, constantly changed something, well, purely our gypsies, the Magyars touched us a little, but they also killed us without asking anyone. At the very beginning of the occupation, two village children, who were older, were appointed police officers. All they did was walk around with rifles, and so they did not touch anyone. Advertisements will be posted, that's all. Nobody said anything bad about them.

It was difficult. To survive, they constantly worked and still starved. I don’t remember a day when your grandfather relaxed and smiled, but I remember that my grandmother prayed all the time for the warrior Alexia. And so all three years. By the beginning of the forty-fourth, the German began to drive us, young guys, to dig trenches, fortifications were being built for them. We knew that ours were suitable, and already thought about how we would meet them.

The Germans understood that we were tomorrow's soldiers. After liberation, we will join the army and fight against them. Therefore, just before the arrival of ours, they suddenly surrounded the village and began to drive the young boys out of their houses and gather everyone in the central square. And then they drove for the village to the ravine. We began to guess what awaited us, but where to go, the convoy around. And suddenly, luckily for us, the plane. The pilot saw an incomprehensible column and went into a combat turn. He came in and gave, to be on the safe side, a queue next to us. The Germans lay down. And we took advantage of the moment and scattered. The escorts were afraid to stand up to their full height and shot at us from their knees with machine guns. I was lucky, I slipped into the log and, only when I was already safe, I discovered that I had been shot in the arm. The bullet passed successfully without hitting the bones, and came out just above the place where the watch is usually worn.

Then we were released. There was no battle for the village, the Germans withdrew at night, and in the morning we were awakened by the roar of Soviet tanks. On the same day, everyone was gathered in the square, and there is already a gallows on it. When did you have time, it seemed like they had just arrived? In front of all the people, both police boys were hanged. Then they did not understand: since he served with the Germans, it means that he is guilty and they will judge you according to the law of wartime. It was after the war that the former policemen were tried, but then there was no time for that. As soon as the bodies of the unfortunates hung, they announced to us that all of us who were under occupation are now enemies and cowards, and therefore must wash off our guilt with blood.

On the same day, the work of the military field commissariat began. Many people like me were gathered from our village and from the surrounding area. I was then seventeen and a half, and there were those who had not even turned seventeen. I never thought that we would start fighting like this. I imagined that they would change us into military uniforms, we would take the oath, and they would give us submachine guns. And no one thought to do this. In the courtyard, forty-four, this is not forty-first, there were plenty of weapons, and we - one rifle for three. Some in bast shoes, some in footwear, and some barefoot, so they went to the front line.

And such untrained boys were driven to atone for the guilt of those who abandoned us in 1941 at the mercy of the victor. We were thrown into attacks in front of the regular troops. It is very scary to run into the attack, and even without a weapon. You run and scream with fear, you can't do anything else. Where are you running? Why are you running? Machine guns in front, machine guns in the back. From this horror, people went crazy. - Father grinned sadly. - After the first attack, I could not close my mouth, all the mucous membrane not only dried up, but was covered with scabs. Then I was taught that before running, you need to pick up salt on a wet finger and smear your teeth.

We walked in front of the troops for a month, more and more "traitors" were added to our detachment. I already had a trophy machine, and I learned how to escape from bullets. When the order came to remove 1926 from the front, it turned out that there was no one to remove from our village. Right now, on a black obelisk in the center of the village, all my friends are recorded. Why did they do it, was it really necessary? How many people were put in for nothing. Why did no one feel sorry for us, because we were almost still children?

And do you know what was the most exhausting? In fact, not even these attacks, no, but the fact that my father was following me all this month in a cart. And after each penalty box fight, he came to pick up the body of his son and bury it in a human way. Father was not allowed to visit us, but I sometimes saw him from afar. I felt very sorry for him, and I wanted to be killed as soon as possible, because they would kill anyway, so why should the old man suffer. And my mother prayed all this time, did not get up from her knees, and I felt it.

Then I got into training, became a tanker and continued to fight. At twenty-six, your uncle Lesha was already a lieutenant colonel and regiment commander, and the Dnieper was forced to be a private in the penal battalion. Are you surprised? War, brother, and war has its own justice. Everyone wanted to survive, and often at the expense of others.

Dad smoked then, he would drag on, be silent, as if looking somewhere, into the depths of the years, and then continues again:

- After the Dnieper, he was returned to the order, reinstated in the party, and the title was left "private". And he was not embittered.

Your uncle and I crossed paths twice at the front. And only in passing. Once from a passing truck, I heard someone shouting: “Lads! Do you have such and such? " - “Why not? Here I am!" We stand in the cars passing towards each other and wave our hands, but we cannot stop: the columns are marching. And another time at the station, our train had already begun to move, and I suddenly saw it. "Alyosha," I shout, "brother!" He is to the carriage, we pull our hands to each other to touch, but we cannot. For a long time he ran after me, he wanted to catch up with everything.

At the very beginning of 1945, two more grandmother's grandchildren went to the front, your cousins. Women in Ukraine give birth early, and I was the last in the family, and, of course, the most beloved. The older sister's sons managed to grow up, so they got to the front. My poor mother, how she begged Alyosha, then me, and then also her grandchildren. During the day - in the field, at night - on my knees.

Everything was there, and the tank was on fire, on the Seelow Heights near Berlin, together with the company commander remained alive. The last days of the war, and we have so many crews burned down, what kind of blood this Victory was given to us!

Yes, the war is over, and we all returned, at different times, but returned. It was like a miracle, can you imagine, four men from one house went to the front, and all four returned. But my grandmother did not return from that war. She begged us, calmed down that we were all safe and sound, cried with happiness, and then she died. She was still quite an old woman, she was not even sixty.

In the same victorious year, she immediately fell seriously ill, suffered a little more and died. A simple illiterate peasant woman. What reward, son, will you appreciate her feat, what order? Her reward from God is her sons and grandchildren, whom she did not give up to death. And what is from people, all this is vanity, smoke.

My father ruffled my hair.

- Son, live a decent person, do not cheat in life, God forbid, that someone would cry because of you. And you will be my order.

And then he continued again:

- The news of the death of my mother came to me under the former Koenigsberg too late. I turned to the commander. And then our commander was a colonel, a Georgian. He wore an overcoat up to his toes, and there was always a Great Dane next to him. He treated me well, even though I was a boy, and he respected me. Then, in the forty-ninth, I remember, he summoned him and asked: “Chief, will you go to study? Do you want to become an officer? " - "So I was under occupation, comrade colonel, but I have no confidence." The commander, waving his fist at someone invisible, shouted: "And I tell you, you will be an officer!" And banged on the table. Yes, he knocked so that the dog, frightened, barked.

While I was getting vacation, while I was getting to the house, I drove for almost a week. There was already snow in the fields. I came to the cemetery, cried over my mother's grave and drove back. I’m driving and wondering that I haven’t forgotten how to cry. Mom's photographs were gone, and I remember her as I saw the last time she ran after our column, then, in 1944.

In some year of the Great Victory, all front-line soldiers began to be awarded the Order of the Patriotic War. We looked at the military registration and enlistment office, and according to the documents, it turns out that my dad did not fight. Who remembered the number of that military-field commissariat that called his father to the penal battalion, who started a personal file on him, if he survived through a misunderstanding? Moreover, the rest of the war passed without a scratch. No hospital treatment notes. There is a medal for the war, but no documents. This means that the order is not required. I was very worried about my father then, it was insulting.

- Dad, - I say, - let's write to the archive, restore justice.

And he calmly answers me like this:

- Why? Am I missing something? I have a rather big pension for shoulder straps. I can still help you now. And then, you see, such orders are not begged. I know why it was given at the front, and I know that I did not deserve it.

Uncle Lesha died in the early seventies. He worked as a school director in his village. The communist was desperate, and he fought with God, people went to church on Easter, and my uncle was painting my house, and that's it. He died not at all old, forgive him, Lord. And a few years later my father and I came to his homeland. I was 17 then.

I remember going into the yard of Uncle Lesha's house. I see that it hurts bate that his brother is no longer there. We arrived at the beginning of autumn, it was still warm, we go into the courtyard, and in the courtyard there is a large pile of fallen leaves. And among the leaves scattered toys already uncle's grandchildren. And suddenly I notice among this fallen foliage and debris of the Order ... of the Red Banner, still without a shoe, of those that were fastened to the tunic, and two Orders of the Red Star. And my father saw it too.

He knelt down in the foliage, gathered the orders of his brother in his hand, looked at them and as if he could not understand something. And then he looked up at me, and in his eyes there was such helplessness: how, they say, are you with us, guys? And fear: can all this be forgotten?

Now I am already the same age as my father was when he told me about that war, and he told me only once. I left home long ago and rarely see my father. But I notice for myself that all recent years on Victory Day, after serving a requiem for the dead soldiers and congratulating the veterans on the holiday, I come home and sit down at the table. I sit down alone, in front of me is a simple snack and a bottle of vodka, which I will never drink alone. Yes, I do not set such a goal, it is rather a symbol for me, because my father never drank it either. I sit and watch films about the war all day. And I just can't understand why it became so important to me, why didn't my pain become mine? After all, I did not fight, then why?

Maybe it's good that grandchildren play with grandfathers' military awards, but we just can't, growing up from childhood, forget them like this, on a garbage heap, guys.

What is this book about?

And in the 90s, together with his beloved and loving husband, he helped the priest restore the temple from the ruins. All the memories of Nadezhda Ivanovna are written down in notebooks and are practically intact, placed in the book. And further on these records, as if "strung" other stories - parishioners and Father Alexander himself. Joyful and terribly sad, ...

Read completely

What is this book about?
In the center of the story is the fate of one of the parishioners of the temple in the Vladimir region, where Father Alexander serves. Much hard and tragic things fell to her lot: a hungry childhood in a distant post-revolutionary village, war, devastation, persecution of the Church, the loss of her only daughter, then a grandson ...

But despite all the hardships, you can’t say about the heroine of the story Nadezhda Ivanovna that her life was tragic and that she was an unhappy person. Raised in a poor but very friendly believing family, from childhood she carried in her heart that joy of being and gratitude to the Lord for every day she lived, which gave her the strength to endure everything.

And in the 90s, together with his beloved and loving husband, he helped the priest restore the temple from the ruins. All the memories of Nadezhda Ivanovna are written down in notebooks and are practically intact, placed in the book. And further on these records, as if "strung" other stories - parishioners and Father Alexander himself. Joyful and terribly sad, funny and creepy, they form the second line of the book - scholia - i.e. marginal notes.

Who is this book for?
For those who appreciate the author's sincere intonation, who expect genuine human stories from prose, warmth, consolation and, most importantly, love for people.

Why did we decide to publish this book?
Firstly, because it was written by father Alexander Dyachenko. And this is always a joy for readers, because meeting, even just on the pages of a book, with a real priest, who deeply and compassionately loves his parishioners, is for many a strengthening of faith and consolation. Secondly, because, despite the abundance of literature on the bookshelves, a truly living, warm, close to everyone word is still a great rarity. Father Alexander knows how to carry such a word.

The "highlight" of the book
"Scholias" is an unusual story: in it, independent and integral, in fact, stories, the stories of the priest about his parishioners, friends, himself and his loved ones are a kind of comprehension, a detailed commentary on another narrative line - the diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna, a believing woman with a very difficult fate. The lines are woven, like threads, into a single whole, revealing the amazing connections that exist between people, it would seem, are absolutely alien - not connected by family ties, even living at different times - but "in eternal memory there will be a righteous man."

about the author
Archpriest Alexander Dyachenko - priest of the Russian Orthodox Church, rector of the church in honor of the icon of the Tikhvin Mother of God in the village of Ivanovo, Vladimir region. Graduated from the Orthodox St. Tikhon Institute. Bachelor of Theology. He is actively involved in missionary and educational work. Published in the All-Russian weekly "My family". He is the author of several books, including "Weeping Angel" and "In the Circle of Light", previously published by Nicaea.
Approved for distribution by the Publishing Council of the Russian Orthodox Church IS R15-507-0385.

Hide ( Here, in the stories, all - Vera, biography and personal life of Alexander Dyachenko,
priest (priest) of the Most High God )

Tell about God, Faith and salvation in such a way that he may never even mention Him,
and everything becomes clear to readers, listeners and viewers, and there is joy in their souls ...
I once wanted to save the world, then my diocese, then my village ...
And now I remember the words of the Monk Seraphimushka:
"save yourself, and thousands around you will be saved"!
So simple, and so unattainable ...

Father Alexander Dyachenko(Born 1960) - in the photo below,
Russian man, married, simple, without a / p

And I answered the Lord my God that I would go to the Goal by means of suffering ...

Priest Alexander Dyachenko,
photo from the meeting-deanonymization of the network blogger

Contents of the collection of stories "Crying angel"... Read online!

1. Wonders ( Miracles # 1: Healing Cancer Patients) (with the addition of the story "Sacrifice")
2. Present (simulator for priests)
3. New Year ( with the addition of stories: Funeral , Image and eternal music)
4. My Universities (10 years on a piece of iron # 1)
5. (with the addition of a story)
6. Crying angel (with the addition of a story)
7. Best Love Song (The German turned out to be married to a Russian - found Love and death)
8. Kuzmich ( with the addition of a story)
9. Shreds (full version, including the history of Tamara's meeting with I.V. Stalin )
10. Dedication (God, ordination-1)
11. Intersections (with the addition of a story)
12. Wonders (Wonders # 2: The Smell of the Abyss and the Talking Cat)
13. The flesh is one ( Wife priest - how to become a mother? With addition:)

Outside the Weeping Angel storybook: 50 thousand dollars
Joke
Be like children (with the addition of a story)
In a circle of light (with the addition of a story)
Valya, Valentina, what's wrong with you now ...
Crown (Island Pavel-3)
love thy neighbour
Climbing
Time is running out (Bogolyubovskiy Religious Procession + Grodno-4) (with additional story "I love Grodno" - Grodno-6)
Time has gone!
The all-conquering power of love
A meeting(with Sergei Fudel) ( with the addition of the story "Means Makropulos")
Every breath ... (with the addition of a story)
Heroes and deeds
Gehazi's curse (with the addition of a story)
Father Frost (with the addition of micro-story)
Deja vu
Children's prayer (Ordination-3, with the addition of a story)
Good deeds
Soul Guardian (Father Victor, special forces-dad, story number 1)
For a life
Boomerang law ( with the addition of a story)
Hollywood star
Icon
And the eternal battle ... (with the addition of a story)
(10 years on a piece of iron # 2)
From the experience of railway theology
Mason (with the addition of a story)
Quasimodo
Princes ( with the addition of a story)
Lullaby (Gypsies-3)
Foundation stone(Grodno-1) ( with the addition of a story - Grodno-2)
Red poppies of Issyk-Kul
You can't see a face face to face ...
Small man

Metamorphosis
A world where dreams come to life
Mirages
Bear and Marishka
My first teacher (Island Pavel-1)
My friend Vitka
Men (with the addition of a story)
In war as in war (Father Victor, special forces-dad, story no. 6)
Our dreams (with the addition of a story)
Don't bend over, little head ...
Scampish notes (Bulgaria)
New Year's story
Nostalgia
About two meetings with Father Alexander "in real life"
(Island Pavel-2)
(Father Victor, special forces-dad, story number 2)
Disconnect mobile phones
Fathers and Sons ( with the addition of the story "Grandfather")
Web
The first love
Letter to Zorica
Letter from childhood (with the addition of the story "The Jewish Question")
Present (about happiness as a gift)
Bow (Grodno-3) (with the addition of the story "Hercules' disease" - Grodno-5)
The position obliges (with the addition of a story - about Victor, no. 4 and 8)
Epistle to Philemon
(Wolf Messing)
Offer
Overcoming (with the addition of a story - about Viktor, special forces-dad, no. 3 and 7)
About Adam
Road checks (with the addition of a story)
Clearance ( Čiurlionis)
Radonitsa
The happiest day
Fairy tale
(10 years on piece of iron # 3)
Neighbors (Gypsies-1)
Old things (with the addition of a story)
Old nags (with the addition of stories and)
Passion-face (Gypsies-2)
Three meetings
Hard question
Wretched
Lesson (Ordination-2)
Feng Shui, or heart disease
Chechen syndrome (Father Victor, special forces-dad, story number 5)
What to do? (Old Believers)
These eyes are opposite (with the addition of stories and)
I did not participate in the war ...
My tongue ... my friend? ...

Even if you read stories and essays father Alexander Dyachenko on the Internet (online), it will be a good thing if you buy the corresponding offline editions (paper books) of Father Alexander and give it to all your friends who do not read anything on the Internet (sequentially, first to one, then to another). This is a good thing!

A little about simple stories Russian priest Alexander Dyachenko

Father Alexander is a simple Russian priest with the usual biography of an ordinary Russian man:
- was born, studied, served, married, worked (working on a "piece of iron" for 10 years), .. remained a man.

Father Alexander came to the Christian faith as an adult. He was very much hooked by Christ. And somehow little by little ( whitefish-whitefish - as the Greeks say, because they love such a solid approach), unnoticed, unexpectedly - turned out to be a Priest, a Servant of the Lord at His Throne.

So suddenly he suddenly became a "spontaneous" writer. I just saw so many things around the significant, providential and miraculous that I began to record the life observations of a simple Russian person in the style of "akyn". And being a wonderful storyteller and a real Russian person with a mysteriously deep, broad Russian soul, who also knew the Light of Christ in His Church, he began to reveal in his stories the Russian and Christian view of our beautiful life in this world, as a place of Love , labor, sorrows and victories, in order to benefit all people from their humble unworthiness.

Here is an abstract from the book "Crying angel" father Alexander Dyachenko about the same:

Fr. Alexander's bright, modern and unusually deep stories fascinate readers from the very first lines. What is the author's secret? In truth. In the truth of life. He clearly sees what we have learned not to notice - what gives us inconvenience and troubles our conscience. But here, in the shadow of our attention, not only pain and suffering. It is here - and unspeakable joy, leading us to the Light.

A bit of biography Priest Alexander Dyachenko

"The advantage of a simple worker is a free head!"

At a meeting with readers Father Alexander Dyachenko told a little about himself, about his path to faith.
- The dream of becoming a military sailor did not come true - Father Alexander graduated from an agricultural institute in Belarus. For almost 10 years on the railroad, he departed as a train builder, has the highest qualification category. "The main advantage of a simple worker is a free head.", - Father Alexander Dyachenko shared his experience. At that time, he was already a believer, and after the "railway stage" of his life he entered the St. Tikhon's Theological Institute in Moscow, after which he was ordained a priest. Today, Father Alexander Dyachenko has 11 years of priesthood behind him, a great experience of communicating with people, a lot of stories.

"The truth of life as it is"

Conversation with priest Alexander Dyachenko, blogger and writer

"Live Journal", LJ alex_the_priest, Father Alexander Dyachenko, who serves in one of the churches of the "distant" Moscow region, does not look like ordinary network blogs. Readers in Father's notes are attracted and conquered by something that certainly should not be looked for on the Internet - the truth of life as it is, and not as it is presented in the virtual space or political debates.

Father Alexander became a priest only at the age of 40, as a child he dreamed of being a military sailor, graduated from an agricultural institute in Belarus. For more than ten years he worked on the railway as a simple worker. Then he went to study at the Orthodox St. Tikhon University for the Humanities, and was ordained 11 years ago.

Father Alexander's works - well-aimed life sketches - are popular on the Internet and are also published in the weekly "My Family". In 2010, the publishers of Nicaea selected 24 essays from the priest's LiveJournal and released the collection Weeping Angel. A second book is also being prepared - this time the writer himself will choose the stories that will be included in it. Father Alexander told about his work and plans for the future to the portal "Pravoslavie.ru"

- Judging by your stories in LiveJournal, your path to the priesthood was long and difficult. What was the path to writing? Why did you decide to publish everything on the Internet right away?

By chance. I must confess that I am not a "technical" person at all. But my children somehow decided that I was too behind the times, and showed me that there is a "Live Journal" on the Internet, where you can write down some notes.

Still, nothing is accidental in life. I recently turned 50 and it has been 10 years since I became a priest. And I had a need to summarize, to comprehend somehow my life. Everyone has such a turning point in life, someone - at 40 years old, for me - at 50, when it's time to decide what you are. And so all this gradually poured into writing: some memories came, at first I wrote small notes, and then whole stories began to come out. And when the same youth taught me to take the text in LJ "under the cut", then I could not limit my thought ...

I recently calculated that over the past two years I have written about 130 stories, that is, it turns out that all this time I wrote even more than once a week. This surprised me - I myself did not expect this from myself; something, apparently, moved me, and if I, despite the usual lack of time for a priest, still managed to write something, then it was necessary ... Now I plan to take a break before Easter - and then we'll see. I honestly never know if I'll write the next story or not. If I don’t have the need, the need to tell a story, I’ll abandon it all at once.

- All your stories are written in the first person. Are they autobiographical?

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: The events that are described are all real. But as for the form of presentation, it was somehow closer to me to write in the first person, I can’t do it differently, I guess. After all, I am not a writer, but a village priest.

Some plots are really biographical, but since this did not all happen specifically to me, I write under a pseudonym, but on behalf of the priest. For me, each plot is very important, even if it did not happen to me personally - after all, we also learn from our parishioners, and all our lives ...

And at the end of the stories, I always specifically write a conclusion (the moral of the composition), such that I put everything in its place. It is still important to show: look, you cannot go to the red light, but you can go to the green one. My stories are primarily a sermon ...

- Why did you choose such a direct form of entertaining everyday stories for preaching?

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: So that the one who reads the Internet or opens a book, still read it to the end. So that some simple situation, which he is used to not noticing in ordinary life, would be agitated, awakened a little. And maybe the next time, having faced similar events himself, he will look in the direction of the temple ...

Many readers later confessed to me that they began to perceive the priests and the Church differently. After all, a priest is often like a monument to people. It is impossible to address him, it is scary to approach him. And if they see in my story a living preacher who also feels, worries, who tells them about the secret, then maybe it will be easier later to come to the realization of the need for a confessor in their life ...

I do not see in front of me a certain group of people from the flock ... But I have a lot of hope for the young, so that they also understand.

Young people perceive the world differently than people of my generation. They have different habits, different language. Of course, we will not copy their behavior or expressions in the temple sermon. But at the sermon in the world, I think you can speak a little in their language!

- Have you seen the fruits of your missionary message?

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: I had no idea, to be honest, that there would be so many readers. But now there are modern means of communication, they write me comments on the blog, more often no-talk, and I also receive letters to the newspaper "Moya Semya", where my stories are published. It would seem that the newspaper, as they say, is "for housewives", it is read by ordinary people busy with everyday life, children, household problems - and from them I was especially happy to receive feedback that the stories made me think about what the Church is and what she.

- However, on the Internet, no matter what you write about, you can get comments that are not too blissful ...
Fr. Alexander: Still, the response is important to me. Otherwise, I would not be interested in writing ...
- And from your regular parishioners in the church have you ever heard gratitude for your writing?
Fr. Alexander: They, I hope, do not know that I am also writing stories - in fact, in many ways, the everyday stories heard from them make me write something down again!

- And if you run out of interesting stories from life experience, run out?

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Some quite ordinary situations are very penetrating - and then I write them down. I do not write, my main task is priestly. While this is in line with my activity as a priest, I am writing. I don’t know if I’ll write another story tomorrow.

It's like having an honest conversation with your interlocutor. It is often at the parish that the community gathers after the Liturgy, and at the meal, each one in turn tells something, shares problems, or impressions, or joy - such a sermon after the sermon is obtained.

- Do you yourself confess to the reader? Does writing strengthen you spiritually?

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Yes, it turns out that you open yourself up. If you write while closing, no one will believe you. Each story carries the presence of a person on whose behalf the story is told. If it's funny, then the author himself laughs; if it's sad, then he cries.

For me, my notes are an analysis of myself, an opportunity to summarize and say to myself: here you are right, but here you were wrong. Somewhere it is an opportunity to ask for forgiveness from those whom you have offended, but in reality it is no longer possible to ask for forgiveness. Maybe the reader will see how bitter it is later, and will not repeat some of the mistakes that we make every day, or at least think about it. Let him not immediately, let him remember in years - and go to church. Although in life it happens in different ways, because how many people all gather, but never come to church. And my stories are also addressed to them.

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Holy Bible... If we don't read it daily, we end up as Christians right away. If we live with our own mind and do not eat the Holy Scriptures like bread, then all our other books lose their meaning!

If it is difficult to read, let him not be too lazy to come to the church-talks about the Holy Scriptures, which, I hope, every parish conducts ... Seraphim Sarovsky read every day Gospel, although he knew by heart, what should we say?

That's all that we, priests, write - all this should push such a person to start reading the Holy Scriptures. This is the main task of all near-church fiction and journalism.

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Well, first of all, we collect our parish library at the church, in which everyone who turns can get something necessary and something modern, which is not only useful, but interesting to read. So for advice, including about literature, do not hesitate to turn to a priest.

In general, there is no need to be afraid to have a confessor: it is imperative to choose a specific person, even if he is often busy and sometimes will “brush off” you, but it’s better if you go to the same priest, and gradually a personal one will be established. contact with him.

father Konstantin Parkhomenko,

father Alexander Avdyugin,

Priest Alexander Dyachenko: It is difficult to choose one thing. In general, with age, I began to read less fiction, and you begin to appreciate the reading of spiritual books. But recently, for example, I again opened Remark "Love your neighbor"- and saw that it was the same Gospel, only stated in everyday life ...

With priest Alexander Dyachenko
talked Antonina Maga- February 23, 2011 - pravoslavie.ru/guest/44912.htm

The first book, a collection of stories, by the priest Alexander Dyachenko "Crying angel" published in the publishing house "Nika", Moscow, 2011, 256s., m / o, pocket format.
Father Alexandra Dyachenko has a hospitable LJ blog- alex-the-priest.livejournal.com on the Internet.